The viewers expected her entire life, and the first day of college was sure to be good content. So as soon as Sidney Aronsohn awakened in her dorm bed, she fixed her hair, took her camera from its shelf and pressed the record button.

“Good morning,” she said, holding the camera high above her head. “Welcome to my channel. Don’t forget to like, comment, subscribe if you guys haven’t already.”

Those three words held such power. Like. Comment. Subscribe. Day after day, they pushed thousands of teenagers to film their own lives and upload them to YouTube, hoping to show some unknowable quality that might make them a star

As Fit Sid, Sidney had chased stardom across five years and 375 videos, carrying the “Fit Fam” with her through middle school graduation and high school first dates. The viewers saw everything. They watched her get her ears pierced and fight to lose weight, met her camera-shy friends and hesitant family and joined her for hours in the gym.

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Eighteen-year-old ASU student Sidney Aronsohn started her YouTube channel as a middle-schooler in search of friends. Now she's hoping to crack 15,000 subscribers, the point at which the business side tended to take off for YouTubers. Mark Henle/The Republic

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Every moment of her life was potential content, blasted onto the screens of strangers across the world. Every day she pushed for more likes, more comments, more subscriptions. The “Fit Fam” had grown to 14,045 members, one viral video away from a milestone that could cement her YouTube channel as a career.

Fifteen thousand. The number loomed over her. Once a YouTuber hit 15,000 subscribers, the business side tended to open up. Starcreators took notice. Brands clamored to sign promotional deals, offering ever-higher fees.

With 15,000 subscribers, Sidney was certain, she could make it.

Few YouTubers make a living through their videos. Fewer still become stars, against impossibly long odds: YouTube has over a billion users. Three hundred thousand channels have passed the 15,000-subscriber cliff, according to online statistics site Social Blade. Only 4,800 channels have 1 million or more subscribers.

YouTube had become a race for the attention of strangers who always wanted more. The internet-famous turned over the copyright to their lives, trading privacy for views.

That was the life Sidney wanted, and already hers had split in two. On camera Fit Sid was a miniature business, drawing attention from companies that flooded her phone. Boxes of free products cluttered in her parents’ homes and filled the space under her dorm bed.

But off camera, Sidney, still just 18, kept putting her key into the wrong dorm door. She planned her life on paper calendars, scribbling in three video uploads a week between six classes. Sleep was rare, because she was constantly up late to finish a video or send one last batch of emails. An online math test went unseen in her inbox, and in her last-minute scramble she scored 11 percent.

“I don’t even know what I should be bringing today,” she said into the camera. “Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that I make it through the day.”

The camera rolled on. Sidney showed her viewers the peel of the banana she ate for breakfast, told them her yogurt was still frozen and filled a backpack for her comparative religion class.

It was her first day on Arizona State University’s downtown Phoenix campus, where she kept finding people who already thought they knew her. A handful of students recognized “Fit Sid” during orientation, and again on move-in day. Two fans applied to be her roommate. Her dorm floor’s Community Assistant introduced herself as a loyal viewer, and a group of school faculty told her, “We watch all your videos!”

Freshmen hear that the first few weeks of college are a time of reinvention. They can create a new identity. Everybody starts from scratch in a crowd of nameless faces. After five years spent promoting her face and her name, Sidney could never do the same.

Fit Sid arrived on campus before Sidney Aronsohn ever enrolled.

A search for friends, then subscribers

Sidney swirled onto YouTube as FashionBarbie16, a seventh-grader in search of friends. The girls at school had turned against her, as middle-schoolers often do. Sidney threw herself into the internet to replace them.

She posted short videos of herself on Facebook and spent hours watching beauty videos on YouTube. Sometimes she scrolled to the comments section and read them all, trying to figure out what caused strangers to be so kind.

It felt like everybody on YouTube was friends with everybody else. Sidney, 13 years old and lonely, wanted to join them. She created a channel.

Her first video opened with a hot pink screen and a Katy Perry chorus. Sidney held the camera sideways and too close to her face as she auditioned for a “collab,” a clique of YouTubers who film together and promote each other’s videos. Most require an audition to join.

“I just feel like this would be a really good experience for me, because I make videos but I never really publish them,” she said in her audition. “Because I love talking, and I could go on and on.”

And for the next five years she went on and on, first as makeup artist FashionBarbie16 and then as workout advocate Fit Sid. She started by teaching herself how to be liked on the internet, showing her solitary subscriber what she bought at Forever 21 and the outfit she wore to school. A stranger commented that her hair looked good. She picked up another subscriber, then a dozen.

“I think that it’s actually really important that you guys have supported me,” she said in her fourth video, a Thanksgiving update that 182 people watched. “It shows me that you guys are actually real people and you’re actually nice to me, so it really helps.”

For Christmas, she wanted 100 subscribers.

Building a career on YouTube

She uploaded more and more of herself to the internet, filmingmakeup tutorials and offering beauty tips. She babysat to save money for camera gear and a laptop. Her channel reached 100 subscribers, then 200, then 500. That was enough to monetize, and soon YouTube was writing small checks for her cut of the ads on her videos.

After a few months Sidney’s subscriber count climbed over 1,000. Sidney auditioned for more collabs and met her YouTube friends in the flesh. Her father took her to a makeup conference in New York and VidCon in Anaheim. He encouraged her to network, to introduce herself and build her brand.

Along the way, YouTube had grown into the largest video-sharing platform in the world, with more than a million people earning some money from their videos. The site churned out star after star. Some moved on, trying to transition into TV or movies. None became a household name, but it didn’t matter. Children across the world saw YouTubing as a viable career.

Her father built a small studio in a spare bedroom, with an oversize mirror and tall cabinets to hold her makeup. Sidney taught herself how to use Final Cut Pro, video editing software, and mastered the buttons on her camera. She fixed the lighting on her videos and learned how to choose a thumbnail picture that would make people click.

A small fan base emerged. One viewer opened an Instagram account named “ilovefashionbarbie16.” Another recognized Sidney in public and ran up to her, crying in excitement.

Sidney didn’t know what to do. She cried, too.

'It's going to be there forever'

FashionBarbie16 became Fit Sid with a promise.

“I wanted to open up my personal life to you guys, majorly,” she said in April 2015. She had just reached 10,000 subscribers. "And I finally decided, you know what, it’s time to open the gates and just let you guys into my life."

And so the Fit Fam followed along as she lost 55 pounds, watching her progress in the progress photos she posted. She filmed herself working out. One video opened with 26 seconds of her crying into the camera, nothing but tears and silence. She told the story of her “WORST Date ever experience!!!!!!!” even though the boy was a viewer, and recapped losing her virginity. Her father called a family meeting and demanded she take that one down. She resisted, but eventually removed the video.

“It’s going to be there forever,” he reminded her, and she hadn’t yet graduated high school. What did she want to tell the world about herself?

Life online gets complicated

As Sidney settled into her college routine, Fit Sid spread across campus. Her roommate grew used to hearing Sidney talk to nobody in her room. The ASU Study Abroad Office staff watched her videos from a summer trip to Sweden on a projector screen. She heard students call out, “Hey, Fit Sid,” as she walked through campus.

But Sidney often felt like nobody on campus shared her world. Only a few friends understood why she stayed home so often, or that she wasn’t always ignoring their texts. Sometimes the messages were lost in a never-ending mass of notifications.

The only people who truly understood, she felt, were other YouTubers. So after a Friday morning of filming — a term of art among YouTubers (even though no film is used) — Sidney drove to a restaurant in Scottsdale and met Ariel Masterson for lunch.

Sidney had followed Ariel, 26, on social media long before they met at a fitness expo a few months earlier. She liked ArielTheMaster’s photos on Instagram, watched her compete in bikini fitness contests and encouraged her to post more on YouTube, where she had 103 subscribers. By the time they met, it felt like they’d known each other for years.

“How’s school?” Ariel asked as they sat down, leaving their phones and cameras within short reach. “How’s ASU?”

College had just begun, and already Sidney had declined a half-dozen parties to work on her channel. The night before, her friends pestered her to come with them to a house party in Tempe, but she had a deadline to finish a video for a sponsor. She sent them away and locked herself in her room, editing alone, reminding herself how close she was to 15,000.

“I experienced that when I was in my first year of school,” Ariel said. “You have to find a balance. Go out maybe once a month or every other month or something like that. You still want to have fun and experience college.”

“I know,” Sidney said. “It makes it hard to, like, go out, because I like doing what I do. I like answering emails. I like editing. I’m so motivated about it.”

“Oh, yeah. If you don’t feel like you’re missing out…”

“I don’t!” Sidney said, leaning forward. Her phone lit up with another notification, and she swiped it away. “But at the same time I feel like everyone’s telling me I need to go out.”

The conversation paused. Sidney checked her phone. More notifications. She closed it.

Doubts had taken root in her mind. She asked herself if it was worth it, to give up the freedom of being 18 for a chance at stardom. She felt happiest when on camera, but a life spent on YouTube was a life spent away from reality.

That pressure had forced some of the site’s top stars to quit: Essena O’Neill told followers she couldn't live a full life online, Casey Neistat said he was “exasperated” by success and Rachel Whitehurst explained she couldn’t sacrifice herself for her content.

Sidney had met hundreds of YouTubers around the world. They all wanted the same thing, but only a handful of them would ever touch it. Stardom required talent and hard work, but the viewers liked what they liked. She couldn’t force them to subscribe.

Their lunch buzzers flickered and shook the table. Sidney and Ariel walked to the counter and picked up their food, taking low-angle photos of their meals when they returned. They waited to put them on Instagram, because photos picked up the most likes around 6 p.m.

“Are you dating anyone?” Ariel asked a few minutes later.

Another impossible question. Sidney rolled her eyes. “Right now,” she said, “my life is so complicated.”

YouTube made even casual dating difficult. Anything could end up on the internet if she became famous.

“I’m not worried,” Sidney said. “Anything I do, I’m proud of. Even if it’s not the best thing to do, it’s not like I’m going to hide it.”

"No, I agree,” Ariel said. “No one is open anymore. Everyone’s putting on this little show.”

Finding that viral moment

A detailed list notes the shots Sidney has planned for her morning routine video for YouTube.(Photo: Mark Henle/The Republic)

Her subscriber count edged closer to 15,000. Sidney prepared a celebration. She hired a photographer to take pictures of her holding giant gold balloons that spelled “15K,” stashed boxes of free products for a special giveaway and created a LinkedIn account to handle the influx of business.

But first she needed the video that would take her over the top.

On another Friday morning, Sidney slid her Canon 70D camera onto a tripod and checked a script that listed the 18 steps to a perfect college morning.

Viewers loved morning-routine videos because there was no friction in them. Everything was pleasant. They showed it was possible to have their lives in order, to pamper themselves and still make it out the door on time. The viewers wanted to see a life perfected, but they also wanted to believe it was real.

Sometimes the line between the two was impossible to see.

Sidney flicked off a lamp and closed the blinds, leaving enough light to film. She pointed the camera at her bed, making sure the focus was set on where she would end up, not where she started. Then she set an alarm on her phone for one minute later, pressed the record button and climbed into bed.

Sixty seconds later, the alarm chimed and Sidney awakened for the second time that morning. She stretched her arms, made herself yawn and turned to smile at the camera. Then she crossed “Wake up” off the list, and moved on through her fake morning, jumping out of bed and turning off the air-conditioning as the camera watched.

As Sidney moved her camera into the bathroom, her phone rang. She stopped recording and answered it. “Hey, babe.”

“I just got out of my test,” said Larisa Krueger, a friend from high school. “Do you need me to come help with the video?”

“Yes, please,” Sidney said. “I’m desperate.”

Larisa knocked a few minutes later. When the door opened, she moved straight for the camera, knowing exactly what to do. Like most of Sidney’s friends, Larisa had grown used to helping her film or decide between two clips.

She pulled the camera off its tripod and held it with both hands, waiting for Sidney’s instructions. Next in the routine was the morning shower. Larisa sat on the bathroom floor and filmed her friend from the knees down, careful to capture enough skin that people would keep watching, but not so much that YouTube pulled down the video.

'Does it look good?'

With a friend's help, Sidney records a morning routine video, popular among YouTube viewers who want to believe a well-ordered, pampered life is attainable.(Photo: Mark Henle/The Republic)

They moved in front of the bathroom mirror, where Sidney washed her face and brushed her teeth with only water, because toothpaste suds wouldn’t look clean on the video. Larisa hovered over her shoulder, switching angles every few seconds. She zoomed in close, and Sidney tried to pretend the camera wasn’t there.

For the next hour they filmed the rest of Sidney’s script, crossing off “Snap on outfit” and “Put stuff in backpack” until they reached “Go to dinning (sic) hall.” They took the stairs down to the food court and Sidney sped ahead, in search of breakfast items still sold after noon. Larisa shut off the camera and found a friend in the crowd. She moved to the girl’s table.

Larisa nodded. “She’s a little over 14,000 right now,” she said. Then she pointed at the girl’s phone, sitting on the table. “Please go in and subscribe. It would mean a lot to her.”

The girl swiped open her phone and opened the YouTube app. Larisa helped her navigate to Fit Sid’s channel, and the girl clicked “SUBSCRIBE.”

Fine-tuning the moments of her life

Sidney Aronsohn films her morning routine, which starts with her alarm going off in her ASU dorm room.(Photo: Mark Henle/The Republic)

Friday afternoon classes gave way to Friday night parties. Freshmen crammed into dorms across Sidney’s floor, hoping the pulse of their music drowned out the clinking of bottles. Somewhere her friends were dressing for a house party in Tempe. Sidney looked out her sixth-floor window and watched people scurry toward the weekend.

A night out was tempting. But she had a video to edit.

Sidney spun shut the blinds and closed her door. She sat at her computer and tried to figure out how five hours of her life that created one hour of footage could be condensed into a five-minute video.

She opened Final Cut Pro and fought off a yawn. Emails from a clothing company had kept her up until 2 a.m. the night before. An In-N-Out bag sat on the desk, and Sidney searched it for leftover fries. She wanted anything outside of her “Kardashian Diet” of cold chicken and pre-packaged eggs. The diet made her feel sick, but she filmed each meal, knowing any video with “Kardashian” in the title would pick up views.

With a tap of the ‘X’ key, she cut out the full minute she spent waiting for an alarm before pretending to roll out of bed. She erased the time she pulled open the blinds, but felt it didn’t look quite right and did it again.

“Perfect,” she said. “That’s exactly what I wanted that clip to look like.” There was nobody around to respond.

Sidney fast-forwarded through the acceptable footage. The finished video wasn’t going to show the multiple takes, the times she shifted the camera’s focus by a few inches or that she asked a friend to help because it was too much to do alone. The viewers wouldn’t see when Larisa held the camera the wrong wayand Sidney snapped at her, or that Sidney was convinced certain friends only spent time with her to win a piece of her eventual success.

Her channel wouldn’t show the homework she didn’t have time for or the parties she skipped. The viewers wouldn’t care that she was 18 years old, and every day of her life had become content.

An hour passed. She yawned again and fetched a Monster energy drink from her refrigerator. Her phone screen lit up with invitations, and Sidney flipped it over. “I really wanted to go out tonight, too,” she said to herself. Then she created a time-lapse of herself eating an omelet.

With a practiced hand she finished the rest of the cuts, then doubled back to trim any spare seconds, because a viewer’s attention was short. She uploaded the music and lined up changes in the rhythm with the video’s jump cuts.

“I really like this!” she said, twisting with glee as she watched herself move through a morning routine. “This is what I wanted.”

All that was left was her favorite part. She switched on her handheld camera and balanced it on top of another camera on her desk. Sliding back in her chair, she made sure her hair fell perfectly over her glasses. She tweaked the camera’s angle. Then she exhaled and pressed record.

“Hey guys! It’s me, Sidney,” she said, a burst of enthusiasm coming from nowhere. “I’m also so close to 15,000, so if you guys could hit the subscribe button and pity me, then please, do that.”

With the introduction finished, she moved on to the end clip, finishing with her signature sign-off. At the end of every video, she blew a kiss into her hands and covered the lens with them, disappearing in the black.

Sidney pressed play one more time and leaned back in her chair, looking for imperfections. Was the music right? Did the lighting make her skin look clear? Did she look like a fitness advocate should look? Would people watch it?

Would they like it?

Would they like her?

The video ended, and Sidney deemed it good enough to post. She clicked to her channel and checked her subscriber count. 14,726, she read, pumping a fist. She saved the file and dragged it into her browser. YouTube started to process the video, and as it disappeared into the internet Sidney stared at the screen, hoping somebody somewhere would like, comment and subscribe.